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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566987">when did you stop believing in santa claus?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidsintern/pseuds/cupidsintern'>cupidsintern</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood Memories, Christmas, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:46:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566987</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidsintern/pseuds/cupidsintern</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve stopped believing in Santa when he was about six years old. <br/>He’d often tell himself he believed in Santa for a while after that. He really wanted to believe. But he never really bought it from the get-go. Mostly because Steve would write letter after letter of Dear Santa this year I think I was pretty good for most of it so may I please have and he’d never get what he asked for. </p>
<p>Billy believed in Santa up until someone made fun of him for still believing it in the fifth grade. Because honestly he bought into the magic harder than most kids- something to believe in. So it hurt more to hear a fellow ten year old break the news- like your cat had been run over and they were the one driving the car.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>when did you stop believing in santa claus?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/jill_ian/gifts">jill_ian</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>merry christmas, steve kinnie</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Steve stopped believing in Santa when he was about six years old. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d often tell himself he believed in Santa for a while after that. He really </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to believe. But he never really bought it from the get-go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mostly because Steve would write letter after letter of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Santa this year I think I was pretty good for most of it so may I please have </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he’d never get what he asked for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d get presents. Too many presents sometimes. Of thing after thing after thing of stuff he just didn't know what to do with. He didn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>any of that stuff. He wanted something from his list. Just one thing. Maybe just the slinky- god he’d always wanted a stupid slinky. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But instead he’d get a Harrods teddy bear with spiky fur and dead eyes from his mom’s trip to England. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pretty painfully obvious all the gifts had always been his parents.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy believed in Santa up until someone made fun of him for still believing it in the fifth grade. Because honestly he bought into the magic harder than most kids- something to believe in. So it hurt more to hear a fellow ten year old break the news- like your cat had been run over and they were the one driving the car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy knew he should have seen the signs though. There was a sharp decline in gift quality after his mom left. He should have known his carefully crafted letters that omitted the various bad stuff he’d done and hyped up the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shogun Warriors Great Mazinga</span>
  </em>
  <span> model he wanted. He actually got one the year before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the year after, he didn't get much of anything. And maybe if someone had told him then that the reason he got socks instead of a bright and blocky robot toy was because his mom had been Santa the whole time, he wouldn't have figured it was just because he’d been bad that year. And all the years to follow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He knew it was stupid and frivolous, but for Christmas this year, Steve really just wanted a pair of Reebok Club Cs. Since he saw the ad they we’re all he’d been thinking about. White. Basic. He was obsessed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>White went with everything anyway. And he’d had different pairs of nikes for ages and ages- he could switch it up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he brought it up to his parents. And admittedly, he could have just said ‘hey can I have a pair of Reebok Club Cs for Christmas please and thank you.’ But he didn't. Maybe it was sort of a test. Maybe he wanted to see if they would notice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he brought it up at dinner- “I saw the new Reeboks downtown the other day. They look pretty sweet”- but to no real response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, you know, maybe they </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>heard him. Maybe Steve could get what he wanted for Christmas, just one year out of eighteen.h</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And out of the various boxes of presents Steve’s parents left before their annual trip to New York, none of them was a shoe box.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The heater in Billy’s car broke the week before Christmas. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He really hoped maybe it was just clogged up coolant, but honestly the whole heater core might need to be replaced. Wasn't like it was a particularly new car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And back home, that wouldn't have been a huge problem for a while. Wasn't like it ever got below 45 in SoCal winters- and that was at like 4am anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Hawkins was fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>freezing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So cold it made Billy rethink fingerless gloves- even if he didnt wanna look like a mittened up little kid. His fingers would go numb, his nose would feel like it was gonna run, his feet would freeze and </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay frozen </span>
  </em>
  <span>even if he got in bed. With socks on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it wasn't like Billy particularly </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>asking his dad for stuff, but you know, t’was the season. So he thought he’d try with a ‘hey… dad. I think the heater core in my car needs to be replaced and you know, uh, Christmas is coming up’. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But all he got was a ‘we’ll see.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which probably meant no. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then definitely meant no when Billy got himself kicked out on fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>christmas eve.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People talk themselves up for things- get their head into it, tell themselves it'll work out- but Billy prefers to talk himself down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Prepare for the worst, then you won't be disappointed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is why, on the whole ride over to Steve’s house from his own and the following two blocks he walks to Steve’s house- because he parked two blocks away- Billy tells himself he was stupid for even driving over in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not like he had anywhere else to go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But not like he’d never been kicked out on a “family holiday” before. Just never on Christmas Eve. Never on Christmas Eve in Indiana which was cold as fucking, whatever layer of hell was supposed to be ice- ninth? Right? God, he wasn't built for this weather, made his brain freeze over. And it made him think about his stupid heater core. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never ask for anything for Christmas. That way you’ll never get disappointed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he could just try not to die of hypothermia in his car until… dunno. Morning maybe. Christmas dinner probably. He was always supposed to be home for that. Regardless of if the night before he was shoved out the back door and down the stupid fucking concrete steps that skinned his knee </span>
  <em>
    <span>through his jeans</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was probably stupid driving over to Steve’s. He remembered yesterday morning when Steve had brought him peppermint hot chocolate and mentioned they probably wouldn't be able to see each other until at </span>
  <em>
    <span>least</span>
  </em>
  <span> boxing day but would Billy mind waiting for his present until then and Billy had said if Steve tried to give him anything he wouldn't accept and Steve’s smile only got wider. Billy didn’t drink the hot cocoa until after Steve left. It was colder then. But still good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They weren't supposed to see each other ‘until at least boxing day’ and Steve’s parents were probably home and Billy would have walked two blocks in below-freezing-but-no-snow just to stare down Steve’s driveway to the soft, warm glow of lights from the house’s tall windows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or no light at all. It was after ten. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe even if Steve’s parents were home, he could try and sneak up- but no. He probably shouldn't even bother Steve, because- yep. The lights were on when Billy finally made it to the start of the driveway. Spilling warm yellow-y light out into the cold air- there was a Christmas tree visible in the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there was only one car in the driveway- Steve's beemer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Weird. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Weirder still because Steve was definitely awake, if he was actually the only one home, because Billy watched as another room in the house lit up with light, then shut off again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it was stupid of Billy to walk as obviously as he did down the driveway, maybe he shouldn’t be so sure he could just knock on the door like he was planning to do, but he didn’t think Steve’s parents were </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>uninvolved. It was fucking Christmas Eve-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy had barely raised his hand to knock when the door pulled open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was Steve- Billy couldnt help the way his heart fucking constricted every time Steve opened his stupid tall front door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Steve smiled, nearly beamed, light and fireplace-scented-heat pouring out onto the front steps. But he had that little pinch in his brow he only got when something was wrong. Or, more wrong than Billy showing up at after-eleven like he had a million times. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your folks home?” Billy’s voice was a little rougher than he meant it to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve only shook his head, grabbed Billy’s arm to tug him inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was ridiculously warm in Steve’s house- always was in the winter, seemed like. And Steve looked ridiculously cozy- sweatshirt, his stupid snowman print flannel pants- but he looked. Sad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Really, honest-to-god sad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy didn't have too much time to think about it before Steve’s face changed, tweaked a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve hugged him- put his arms around Billy’s shoulders and pulled him all close.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy hesitated on reflex a little before settling into it. Steve smelled more Christmassy than usual- cinnamon, maybe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm glad you’re here.” Steve mumbled into Billy’s shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glad I got kicked out?” Billy smiled a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know that's not what I meant.” Steve pulled back, let Billy go. “And I was holding out hope you just. Snuck out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy huffed a laugh as Steve turned to lead them both upstairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy wanted to ask why Steve was home alone, or if his parents were coming back, but. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I mean, he could guess. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve’s parents had never seemed super interested in things like family time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was a routine to this by now, that both boys had perfected to the point that they didn't have to talk about it too much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy would appear in the dead of night if he was sure no one else was home. Steve would drag him upstairs. If Billy was injured, he’d let Steve take a look at it, because Steve would figure it out anyway if he didn’t, and once he’d done that, Steve would give Billy this eyebrows-raised-head-tilted look that meant ‘do you want to talk about it.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mostly, Billy didn't. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mostly he just tried to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>think. Or think very very hard about how Steve looked when he tipped his chin to look up at where Billy sat on the ledge of Steve's sink counter, Steve standing between his legs, putting a semi-unnecessary bandaid over his knee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy really didn't want to talk about how he felt, not being allowed home on tonight of all nights, knee stinging almost as much as his cheek did but Steve had determined neither needed any serious attention, but-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve’s head snapped up. He looked concerned. Billy didn’t say his first name a lot. “...Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pinch in Steve’s brow got deeper. “I… why?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Billy reached up a hand without thinking about it, smoothed his thumb over Steve’s scrunched brow. “This.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s.” Steve pushed Billy’s hand away- gently, but still. Funny how Steve would be so soft with Billy, but would panic if he ever did it back. “Look, whatever. Whatever I have going on, you are clearly having a way rougher night-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’re your parents?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve didn't answer right away. He stayed on his spot on the bathroom floor. Looked at his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“New York.” The scrunch was back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Billy nearly laughed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve ran a hand through his hair, shook himself off a little. “Some, business thing. I dunno.” He looked up again. “Not important.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Seems like they should. Be here.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Steve only shrugged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy could tell there was no getting in unless Steve thought he wasn't stealing the spotlight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d have to talk about how he felt for once if he wanted Steve to do it back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Usually, Billy didn’t talk about his own feelings unless he was super hammered or coming down from having Steve fuck his brains out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just, sitting in Steve’s bathroom at eleven-something on Christmas Eve seemed… too real. Too much like one of the factual, sober, fucked up things that his life was made up of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We sorta stopped doing Christmas in like. A big way. After… after my mom left,” Billy offered up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve looked like he was listening again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was doing most of the like, Santa shit,” Billy continued. “Kind of a rude awakening, finding out Santa was bullshit like that. Didn't even get a stocking…”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Billy could feel Steve’s legs nudge against his. “This is the third year in a row my parents have missed Christmas.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy sort of hated that this had turned into a heart-to-heart, sort of loved it. Steve never talked about himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seriously?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve laughed, a small, bitter thing. “Yeah. They’re always like ‘it's just a day! We’ll be home soon’ and like, the first time they were, but… no idea when they'll be back now. Said they just, ‘missed their flight’.” Steve put air quotes around the word. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s fucked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Steve looked into the middle distance over Billy’s shoulder for a second before voicing “Christmas fucking sucks.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Right?” Billy sat up, more animated. “People act like it's this great festive thing and it just sucks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve was nodding- they’d always been good at commiserating together. “And how you're supposed to see your whole extended family but like, you all kind of don’t like or don’t know each other.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Billy wholeheartedly agreed, started some long story about a nightmare Christmas party back home when they were still seeing his mom’s family on the holidays and Steve got to talk about the time he accidentally ruined a country club Christmas party as a seven year old by sabotaging dessert and honestly it felt good to just. Complain. Less cold, less isolated. To the point where Steve found himself saying, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d much rather just spend all of Christmas with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it wasn't like they </span>
  <em>
    <span>weren't supposed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to say stuff like that. They were past that point. It just didn't happen often. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve sort of tripped up after that, realizing he’d said it after the fact, cringing a little at himself before Billy went. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in luck, pretty boy.” Billy lifted up Steve's wrist to show his watch. “It’s after midnight. Look.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was all that shit about love making you understand the meaning of christmas? “Yeah.” Steve smiled, couldn't help it. “Well, uh, Merry Christmas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Merry Christmas.” Billy grinned back. “Got any mistletoe?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
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